


I Don't Do Birthdays.

by bioticgoddess



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics), Jason Todd: Red Hood
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-16
Updated: 2018-03-16
Packaged: 2019-03-31 22:16:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13984464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bioticgoddess/pseuds/bioticgoddess
Summary: This was requested for Jason Todd/Red Hood’s birthday (8/16). Enjoy y’all!Summary: It’s Jason Todd’s birthday; having died and come back, he doesn’t celebrate it - despite the wishes the every other friend and member of the Bat Family. While he’s on patrol, you set up a little something.





	I Don't Do Birthdays.

 

****Having died and come back, and nearly died a few dozen times for good measure, Jason had no intention of celebrating his birthday. It was just a day on the calendar. A hot, muggy, swampy day in Gotham. As far as he was concerned there wasn’t a god-damned thing that was special about August 16.  At least that was **his** plan.

**Yours** …not so much.

He’d gone out on patrol hours earlier. Not that you could’ve convinced him otherwise without resorting to drastic measures. He didn’t bat an eye when you kissed him on the cheek and said you were going to stay in - your combat suit needed some mending anyway. Or so you told him. Alfred was a practically the patron saint of the Batfamily.  

You weren’t entirely sure how much time had passed between when you baked the cake and when you realized the stove was still on. But grazing the side of your hand on a hot burner had slowed your progress slightly. “Bloody fecking…god…”you cursed under your breath, eyes full of fire as you wrapped your palm in silver-sulfadiazine cream and burn gauze. Might not have been bad but it hurt like hell.

He’d gone out at midnight and swore to be back by three - it was one thirty according to your oven clock. Burn aside, that left you with just enough time to set out the small gift you’d gotten him and frost the cake once it finished cooling. First, however, you made sure the rest of the appliances were off. Would do you no good to burn down the apartment building. You could practically hear Jason tease you about yet another kitchen injury.  _“You fight with knives, use kunai and shuriken. Not a scratch, slice bread, twenty stitches,”_ he’d said once.

“There,” you smiled, with thirty minutes left as you arranged the cake on the breakfast counter opposite the stove. “Perfect.” There was one candle for each year and one for good luck - your mother’s tradition.

–

“I hate all of you,” Jason growled at his adoptive siblings. They were supposed to be out on patrol, not half celebrating his birthday. There were no cakes, no big presents (thank god) but still cards and that godforsaken song! At least Barbara could carry a tune. The others…he was sure his ears were bleeding as they caterwauled through Happy Birthday.

He heavily regretted his decision to go on patrol tonight.

“You love us,” Dick practically taunted, smiling broadly at his younger brother.

“Up for debate,” he snapped back arms folded over his chest.

Damian asked, “You’re still a child Todd.” He was sure Barbara had threatened him or something to get the demon spawn to participate. “Age doesn’t make you a man,” the boy mocked him.

Jason repeated to himself: _I will not kill the brat. I will not kill the brat. [Y/n] would not be pleased._  After a moment he said aloud, through gritted teeth as Tim proceeded with the annual birthday punches, “Old enough to make your life a nightmare.”

“And one for good luck,” Tim said triumphantly, hitting his arm a final time. At least it had been Tim this year. Barbara and Dick had both left bruises. Then again, Barbara’s turn had been his first birthday back and he was sure she wanted to kill him a second time out of spite. And Dick’s had been the  subsequent year, they’d been fighting so he was probably getting some kind of revenge. [Y/n] had declined to be the assailant last year and he’d thanked god you stated as much. He was sure you’d have hit him hard just for shits and giggles.

And he’d have let you.

He groaned loudly, “Yay. I’m another year older. Whoopdey fucking doo.”

“Language,” Barbara shot, glaring at him. Damian shrugged. He really couldn’t have cared less. The others had all heard worse. “So what are your plans,” she asked after a moment.

Before he could answer Tim suggested, “Nothing. He never does anything.”

“A proud Todd - [Y/L/N] tradition for August 16,” he chuckled, sporting a thumbs up instead of the middle-finger he wanted to give them. He could see your face if he did - scrunched up even under the domino mask with your brow furrowed and eyes narrowed at him. It was a look he’d seen you give dozens of rogues and their thugs. You’d used it on him a few times, like on patrol, it frightened no one. In fact, he thought it was kinda cute.

Dick waved a hand in front of his face, well, the helmet. “Dude, hello, earth to Jason. Did you hear me?”

“No. Clearly.”

“Do you want to go back to the Manor and do something? Bruce is out on patrol, so’s Helena,” he said, “Not like we or Alfred couldn’t make you a cake and we could just…”

Cutting him off Jason countered, “Or, I can go home. You guys can do whatever. And we can all pretend this never happened. Yea, I’m good with that one.” As the other four started to argue, listing off the merits of celebrating his birthday - they did every year - he took off. 

They wouldn’t follow him, they knew better.This was one of a handful of days that egging on the Red Hood was a poorer choice than usual.

–

“Babe, what’s…what’s this,” Jason’s voice echoed. For a minute you thought it was you mind playing tricks, then you realized you’d fallen asleep on the couch.

Groggily, you sat up. Rubbing the sleep out of you eyes you could see him staring at the table. Helmet beside the cake, eyes narrowed - from the side you could tell he wasn’t pleased with the turn of events. “Cake,” you said.

“And this,” he held up the box next to it.

Waving him on you said, “For you. Open it.” There was no wrapping paper, no ribbon, it was a re-purposed jewelry store bracelet box. Simple.

Jason looked between you and the box, too exhausted to argue. If nothing else, you at least weren’t trying to celebrate his birthday for your own enjoyment. The same couldn’t have been said for his siblings – even Barbara. Sighing, he set the box down for a minute, “[Y/n] you know how I feel about this.”

“Humor me Jaybird,” you said, the soft smile that he could never refuse spreading across your face. He felt less on edge as he worked off his gloves and jacket.

“Only because it’s you,” he said tossing his jacket over the back of a chair and picking up the box. He almost dreaded opening it as he inspected the plain white box for a moment. He was relieved that you hadn’t wrapped it or done anything of things you’d done to Damian. 

Granted he did remember the most recent of the demon spawn’s birthdays. You’d wrapped his gift in not one but twelve layers of wrapping paper. It hadn’t even been all wrapping paper – most of it had been more substantial things like duct tape and heavy duty posters. Even Bruce had gotten a kick out of the kid’s reaction to each layer and the snarky messages on them.

Today, however, two small pieces of tape were all that held the box lid closed. Nothing complicated.

Slicing the tape with his thumb, he pushed off the box’s lid. Sitting on a piece of gauze was a note, roughly the dimensions of the box. “Who complains about cake? No one. Mmm…cake!” He laughed, picking up the paper. Underneath there were several small bags, like the ones jewelers put rings or earrings in after repairs, filled with glitter. On the back of the note, in glitter pen (because of course), you’d written, “And glitter bombs to send the others.” There was one for each Bat-kid and even one for Bruce. “PS. I love you.” Underneath the bags was also a flattened piece of metal, about the size of a military ID tag.

Lifting it out his eyes caught the engraving on it, stamping really – like one of those souvenir pennies. On one side was his name and date and place of birth. On the other, the date he returned to Gotham as the Red Hood; that side was done in a stronger, deeper engraving style than the other. “What’s this,” He asked, looking skeptically at you.

“Well,” you said, finally standing up from the couch. Crossing to him, you rested your hands on his shoulders. “You take on too much love, this is a reminder. A token to keep you in the present.” One of your hand wandered to his cheek. Thumbs stroking those cheekbones and the little bit of stubble starting to come in you added softy,  “I don’t want to lose you again.”  Referring back to the days and weeks surrounding his death was always touchy. 

He smiled, looking at the piece of metal in his hand then turned to you. “You do that every day beautiful,” the grin was practically ear to ear as he seized you up in a kiss.


End file.
